Raindrops
by Fusion Orchid
Summary: Aoshi and/or Misao drabbles, to be updated with new chapters as time goes by.
1. JCB

A/N: All my non-explicit Aoshi and/or Misao drabbles will go here, so feel free to check back for more. I cannot guarantee coherence, but I can definitely guarantee silliness.

**Chapter One: JCB**

This bit of AU, desperately OOC ridiculousness will likely make 0 sense whatsoever to anyone outside the U.S. or Canada. PM me if you're desperate for an explanation. Dedicated to my BFF and Japanese historical/cultural consultant, jai on LiveJournal.

Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work. Bath & Body Works' Japanese Cherry Blossom does not belong to me, other than a pretty little bottle of EDT on my dresser. I have not profited from the use of the likeness of either Bath & Body Works or Japanese Cherry Blossom used in this work.

* * *

(Soft, sensual music, a peculiar blend of the saxophone and the shamisen, plays. A background of shimmering, crimson-red silk ripples slightly, as though caught by a spring breeze. Suddenly, a cascade of pure white cherry blossoms tumbles down as if carelessly spilled, forming into shimmering, silvery-white text.)

_This autumn..._

(Some of the tiny white flowers tumble down further, then seem to be glowing, almost incandescent, against golden skin. As the camera pans out, we see the skin belongs to the sleek but muscular chest of a man, pocked and streaked by some impressive battle scars. One nipple is off-camera, the other demurely hidden by a snowy blossom as if by coincidence.)

_Unleash your passion..._

(The camera pans up to reveal Aoshi's face. His hair is tousled into a sexy onyx mess, shimmering with ethereal red highlights. His ordinarily hard-lined mouth is softened into a sleepy pout. As his long, coal-black lashes lift, we see that the usually icy eyes are warm, deep sapphire with…desire?)

_And his._

(Aoshi shoots the camera a smoldering look, masterfully translating all his warrior's ki into "Come get some, ladies.")

(The red silk background appears again, and the remaining flowers transform into a perfume bottle of red frosted glass decorated with clear vines, black flowers, and a black and silver cap. Elegant white script winds across the screen.)

_You know where to get some…_

(The saxophone/shamisen music abruptly ends with the sound of a record screeching to a halt as a crowd of females, ranging from preteen girls all the way up to senior citizens, descends screaming upon a store with a red and white-striped awning. In the cloud of dust left by their estrogen-driven stampede, a very elderly woman in a polyester dress and orthotic shoes hobbles desperately towards the door.)

(The music starts again, followed by a rain of tiny white petals. A feminine screeching is heard.)

"Oh, Aoshi-sama!"


	2. Sweets for the Sweet

**Chapter Two: Sweets for the Sweet**

A/N: I don't know the origin of the "Misao brings Aoshi his tea in the temple every day" paradigm so common in A/M fic, but I thought it'd be fun to do something different. Though events in the manga lead me to believe Misao relinquishes the title of okashira back to Aoshi post-Kyoto Arc, here I'm writing as though she remained in the position.

I'm sure this is the tamest thing I've ever written.

Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work.

* * *

Misao snorted in her sleep, garnering a faceful of paper and not enough air. The sensation of being smothered woke her up with a start, and she lifted her head, gazing blankly around the okashira's office. Despite the depth of her slumber, the room was still lit by generous afternoon sunlight spilling in through the window, and she felt momentarily ashamed.

A loud sigh escaped her lips, sounding more dramatic than she intended. In these days of relative peace, okashira entailed far more paperwork than after-dark espionage, most of it frustratingly time-sensitive. She had stayed up late the night before, caught a couple sparse hours of sleep, and then returned to her desk right after breakfast. Stressed, Misao had wolfed down her lunch and then gotten sleepy poring over endless mission and finance reports, and the last thing she remembered was wondering why the Aoiya was so damn quiet on what would usually be a lively summer afternoon.

With a grimace, she noticed the ink on the papers she'd passed out on was blurred. There were undoubtedly matching black smudges on her forehead, cheeks, and chin. How dignified. Making a face at the sheaf of documents, she turned in her chair to look for something fresh to write on. Annoyingly, the stack seemed to be buried under a pile of old papers, dusty office implements and, peculiarly, a little patchwork doll in the form of a black cat. Misao gave it an utterly blank look before turning back around, and nearly falling out of her chair.

The object of her irritation, the stack of marred papers, was gone, replaced by a polished lacquer tray. On top, a blue-green lacquerware teapot she didn't recognize sat next to a matching teacup, full of gently steaming golden liquid. As a little breeze drifted in from the open window, the scent of jasmine tickled her nose. Glancing up, she saw that the door to her office was closed, just as she'd left it when she came in.

Misao blinked. In addition to the tea, a little plate held a neat stack of little cakes, each frosted in pink and topped with a little white rose. Only one cake was green, bare of confectionary adornment. Curious, she reached for it first. Biting into it, her nose and tastebuds were teased by the pleasantly bitter grassiness of matcha.

Puzzled, Misao sipped her tea. Like any ninja, she slept lightly, and every sense was honed to a razor-sharp edge. Who, even among the Oniwabanshuu, could have snuck in and silently left a tea tray while she was merely turned around, not even sleeping any longer? Maybe Jiya, but he was getting old, and on pretty summer days he preferred to chase young girls around town.

She froze, mouth full of strawberry cake.

In the candlelit dimness of the temple, a ghost of a smile was obscured by the ever-changing shadows and raven-black hair.


	3. Onmyou Hashi

**Chapter Three: Onmyou Hashi**

A/N: Onmyou Hasshi is one of Aoshi's techniques introduced during the Kyoto Arc. According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong because it's not like just anyone can go in and change stuff, it translates as "dusk to dawn strike." However, if you were to commit a typo and substitute 'hashi' for 'hasshi,' it would translate as "secret chopsticks."

I apologize for the lack of Misao – I just can't imagine Aoshi stealing food from her, can you?

Shinobi arts (and in this case Japanese language) consultant, as well as the person who pointed out the pun: saluspopuli on LiveJournal.

Disclaimer: I do not own any any of the characters used in my fanfiction, nor profit from my work.

* * *

You'd think living in a restaurant, he'd get plenty to eat.

Aoshi eyed the huge bowl of steaming winter melon soup, greenish-white chunks of sweet gourd floating in clear broth. Despite the name, it was a delicacy this time of year when most of the stored vegetables had been used. Its aroma wafted across the table, teasing his nostrils, tempting him.

His eyes shifted to the left. Himura was focused on feeding Kenji, who had not quite mastered chopsticks. More rice ended up on his dark blue gi, a perfect miniature copy of his father's, than in his mouth. He didn't seem to mind, happily sputtering and drooling out soggy white grains.

To the right, Okina wasn't even paying attention to the spread of tasty Chinese dishes. His wrinkled fingers worried the new red velvet bow tied around his beard as he watched a pretty waitress go by, bearing a tray of empty dishes. An outraged feminine shriek and the crash of broken crockery, followed by a loud slap, echoed through the room.

Even Aoshi found it hard to fake a neutral expression when his mouth was filling with drool. Deep blue eyes, tinged slightly with green, shifted back to the soup. He didn't even care about the relatively flavorless broth, really, just that delightfully sweet and lightly crunchy melon…

"Kenji hasn't tried winter melon yet since Kaoru can't…uh…" Aoshi said nothing as Himura's voice trailed off.

"Oro?" The bowl now contained nothing more than broth and a few shreds of seaweed and green onion. The glistening pale hunks of sweet vegetable had vanished as though they had been just a figment of the imagination.

"Okina-dono, did you…" No indeed. The old man was unconscious on the floor, his chopsticks still wrapped in a napkin atop the table. Below, two halves of a smashed bowl perched precariously on his face. A little blood leaked out from beneath.

"Aoshi." The ex-hitokiri's tone wasn't even accusatory, more matter-of-fact. Aoshi blinked, batting his long lashes in a way that would have been feigned innocence coming from anyone else. Coming from him, it was just getting his bangs out of his eyes.

"Excuse me, could we have more winter melon soup?"

Their waitress gave Himura an odd look, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

When it came to fine dining, even Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu had nothing on Aoshi.


End file.
